


Drinking Games

by Ledaeus



Category: Dishonored (Video Games), Thief (Video Game 2014), Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol, And theres some fluff, As you do with Corvett, Drinking, M/M, Peer Pressure, Seriously it's just alcohol, Smoking, These guys are drunks, Vomiting, also, and, and a bit of banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 09:51:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16992735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ledaeus/pseuds/Ledaeus
Summary: One thing that Garrett is never quite sure of is how he always seems to find himself in these positions. He’s not sure how Corvo convinced him to go for a drink with him at the Siren’s Rest, and he’s not sure how he managed to get Basso to come along either, but most of all, he’s not sure how these plans came about in the first place.Corvo covinces Garrett to come for a drink with him and things get a bit out of hand.





	Drinking Games

**Author's Note:**

> I'm reaching with the behaviour of some of these characters but they're _drunk_ okay??
> 
> Enjoy!

****

**\----Sevens----**

One thing that Garrett is never quite sure of is how he always seems to find himself in these positions. He’s not sure how Corvo convinced him to go for a drink with him at the Siren’s Rest, and he’s not sure how he managed to get Basso to come along either, but most of all, he’s not sure how these plans came about in the first place. Garrett doesn’t like spending any more time than he absolutely has to in that hole, and isn’t sure how Basso copes with spending most of his days sitting in his booth with the rest of the noise and the filth either, so all in all, he expected it to have been a ruse; a cover. He had expected to be talking business here, dark dealings between assassins and thieves and fences, not _actually_ drinking.

He doesn’t drink alcohol anyway, and _especially_ doesn’t drink alcohol he hasn’t uncorked, poured, and vetted himself. What in the Trickster’s name was Corvo thinking?

Even Basso, in all his gruff glory, mistrusts Corvo at the best of times, yet here he is, sat in front of the pair, streaked half-empty pint glass on the table in front of him, shuffling a grubby deck of cards. Wordless, his hands flit here and there as he cuts the deck, lifts roughly half the cards and deposits them at the front of the stack, repeats the action once, twice, and then cuts it once more, places both halves flat down on the chipped table where they stick momentarily to the thin veneer of dried drink. He looks back up at Corvo and displaces his jaw slightly, cocks his head, lets the battered top hat fall down over one eye, and then riffles the cards, sweeping them back up into his hands, as he did when cutting the deck. His new bird, a tiny wagtail called Robin, flits to his shoulder and stares at Garrett as she waves her tail up and down cautiously, tilting her head in something like curiosity. She’ll never replace Jenivere, but she seems to have brought Basso something, has begun to fill up the hole left by his late bird’s departure.

Corvo has already insisted that Garrett let him buy him a beer. Garrett has made it abundantly clear that he won’t drink it, but eventually relents, telling Corvo he’s free to waste his money, and if he won’t listen to him, the he gets what’s coming to him.

Of course, the assassin just laughs and orders two beers, telling Garrett that he’ll drink it instead if Garrett really is sure he doesn’t want any, that beer _never_ goes to waste while he’s around, but he gives it to Garrett anyway, _just in case_ , and they both walk back to Basso’s booth where Corvo insists that Garrett sit next to the window at the far end of the table, effectively barricading him in. At least, that’s what it feels like to Garrett.

Basso doesn’t seem to notice. Just keeps glaring daggers at Corvo while he reshuffles and then deals with expert-level speed and precision. Corvo lifts an eyebrow, takes a sip of his beer with a momentary grimace and smiles, a crooked smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. Both of them have been here before. Neither of them are strangers to card games, or bets. And neither of them like the other.

Garrett doesn’t pick up on this, preoccupied by the beer glass and the muggy warmth of the tavern, rests his chin in the palm of his hand and scratches at the stubble he’s been too lazy to shave away of late as he watches Basso deal, catching the cards as they slide across the table in his direction. Several seconds later, when he’s finished dealing, the three of them pick the cards up simultaneously and shuffle them around, careful to protect their faces from the other players, holding them up straight and reordering them into something that looks less like a mess. Garrett fumbles with the cards clumsily. Tries not to drop them.

Corvo seems to want to say something before they begin. He puts down his glass and looks pointedly at Basso. “So what are we playing for?”

Basso shrugs noncommittally, not bothering to look up from his cards, “I don’t know, you tell me. Gold? Fame? Garrett’s sweet favour?”

Garrett looks up suddenly at the mention of his name, not having been paying attention to the rest of the sentence. This tickles Corvo and he lets out a sharp laugh and turns to Basso.

“Playing for gold? In Sevens?” the sarcastic amusement is thick in his voice like his Dunwall accent, the finger tracing circles on the dirty (but somehow still slightly shiny) table all too distracting for Garrett.

Basso sighs and finally looks up, frustrated. “Just play to stay sober, alright? Whoever knocks, drinks.”

Garrett isn’t happy about this latest development at all. He looks up at Basso, a betrayed glint in his one dark eye. “Really? You’re going to make me do this?”

Basso ignores both Garrett’s comment and Corvo’s guffaw, and continues shuffling through his hand of cards intently. “Seven of diamonds.” He places the card face-up in the middle of the table and looks to Corvo, who bites his bottom lip in thought. 

“Six of diamonds. How come you always get the seven?”

Both Basso (who ignores Corvo’s comment) and Corvo turn their gaze to Garrett. He feels their eyes boring into his head as he averts his eyes downwards into his lap. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to play if it involves alcohol. Corvo seems to pick up on this, and shuffles slightly closer to Garrett, pretending the Master Thief didn’t also simultaneously shuffle the same distance away from him, leaving them none-the-closer. His voice is silky-smooth, low, warped by the background noise of the tavern.

“You don’t have to drink if you really don’t want to, Garrett. We won’t make you.”

He doesn’t need anyone telling him what he can or can’t do. Garrett bristles, indignant, “You don’t need to _reassure_ me of anything.”

“Good.” Corvo traces a finger across his jaw gently, the calloused pads of his fingers, cool and damp from his grip on the pint glass, and the rough stubble of Garrett’s face mingling in a way that’s become all too familiar over the past few months. “But please, Garrett; play your gods-be-damned turn.”

Garrett glares in response, waits for Corvo to retreat before uncovering his hand of cards and searches through them, then pauses (maybe for a bit too long, just enough to annoy Corvo who is really beginning to get on his nerves), and places another card down, face up on the table. “Seven of spades.”

Basso reaches out to adjust the positioning of the card on the table. “Nearly impossible to miss turns with only three people,” he grumbles, reaching into his deck and pulls out yet another card, “Five of diamonds.”

“See. You say that,” said Corvo in amusement, “But it’s not an impossibility,” he knocks twice on the table, signalling that he has no viable cards to play and takes a long draught from his pint glass, the orange light of the sconces dancing in the golden liquid as it slowly drains from the vessel to a state of two-thirds fullness. When he finishes, he turns to Garrett and grins in that roguish, lopsided, carefree way that’s so characteristic of him, already smelling as bitter as the beer he’s just put down. The smell of beer is, in a way, comforting to Garrett, by virtue of the fact that’s it’s so familiar, and he’s come to associate the scent with Basso, from the days of visiting him beneath the Crippled Burrick (which stank of alcohol just as badly as any other pub). “I’m more of a spirits man myself, but it’s probably a good idea to start out light, isn’t it?” he nudges Garrett expectantly, but doesn’t get a reaction.

Ignoring Corvo’s obvious pleas for attention, Garrett hums and takes his turn again, placing another card down on the surface. “Four of diamonds.”

“Oh, you _bastard_.”

Now it’s Basso’s turn to drink too. He’s not as sure and graceful as Corvo when he tips his own preferred drink, a dark stout, back and closes his eyes as he drinks, coming back up visibly dishevelled. It is very possible, in Garrett’s mind, that he’s been drinking since long before he and Corvo turned up, but it’d be unlikely that either of them would spot it. Basso is, after all, well versed in the art. But they have different styles, the two men. Corvo is graceful and smooth, good at appearing as if he knows what he’s doing until the very last moment (just like in all his other pursuits), and Basso doesn’t care nearly as much about keeping up appearances, but generally lasts longer than Corvo.

In addition, Basso gets sick if he starts doing shots. Horribly, horribly sick. Vomit everywhere. You don’t even want to know.

They continue to play, turning left, turning left, turning left. Placing cards down, knocking twice, drinking, adjusting cards, putting more down, knocking back more alcohol. All through this, Garrett has not missed a single turn. _Maybe_ , he thinks, _just maybe,_ he can go home now, leave the alcohol untouched, return to the clocktower, sort himself out some hot tea and relax in the knowledge that he’s safe and sound, protected from people who would take advantage of his drunken state.

Maybe this is a good sign. Maybe this means his luck’s on the high for tonight, maybe his run-in with the Primal leaves Lady Luck feeling bad about herself. 

But the world never seems to work out that way, does it?

**\----Kings----**

They’re hardly finishing up their game of sevens when the door bursts open and a small group of people walk in, traipsing mud on the (admittedly already less than clean) wooden floors, ignoring the annoyed looks from the barman as he leans on the counter, the bridge of his nose pinched between his thumb and forefinger. The group look around for a moment, spot Corvo, and join them at the booth, cramming themselves in, the table now very clearly _too fucking small_ for all of them to fit at once. Corvo appears to recognise at least some (if not all?) of them and raises his glass in greeting to some (and pointedly ignores others) as they sit down. Garrett is pushed further and further along the bench as more people pile onto it, until one side is pressed uncomfortably against the cool wall and the other is pressed up against Corvo’s warm body.

Two men now sit on Corvo’s other side - one with a pitted, ugly scar down the right side of his face, oiled hair swept back off his forehead neatly, and the man at his side looks younger, skin smoother but doesn’t appear any less uptight, quite the opposite. Not bothering to take his gloves off, the first man dips his head and lights up a cigarette, the smoke curling up around his face as he releases it and Basso coughs, apparently annoyed by the intrusion. He’s just about to say something when the younger man talks directly over him.

“Martin,” he says, placing his elbows on the table and leaning forwards, the stunning embroidery on his sleeves catching the light, “and this is Daud, seeing as Corvo hasn’t yet introduced us.”

The man with the scar - Daud - nods at Basso, barely bothering to look up from his cigarette, already smoking like a chimney. “I didn’t expect to find you here, Bodyguard.”

Corvo scoffs and finally looks over at him, disgusted. “Blow off, choffer. I don’t know how you sleep at night. Why are you even here?”

Another man, all whiskery mutton chops and ashy stubble, who sets several fresh pint glasses of varying colours down on the table, finally sits himself down on one of the short stools at the end of the benches, “For some reason, Martin here wanted to bring his friend along. It’s Fugue, see, and he’s an Overseer. Best to get out of Dunwall while all that happens, especially if you’ve made plenty of enemies,” the man shoots a disapproving look at Martin who stares him back, dead in the eyes. 

“I wanted to get away,” Martin says curtly in response, waving away Daud’s smoke as it expands into his own space, quite clearly keeping some important detail to himself.

“Sure you did,” the man with the sideburns says, and then turns to Garrett, “Samuel. My apologies for interrupting your gatherin’. This is Havelock, Piero and Pendleton,” he works his way around the circle of men now looking uncomfortably at each other, pointing at a uniformed man with the face of a bulldog and a body like a brick shithouse; an awkward, bookish inventor with a pair of the roundest spectacles Garrett has ever seen perched on the bridge of his nose; and a man who looks like royalty, dressed up to the nines, completely at odds with the rest of the patrons in the tavern.

“You really do have a habit of visiting this sort of place, Martin,” Pendleton says, clearly disgruntled by the stickiness of the seat, shuffling to get into a more comfortable position next to Basso, “Gods know how you get away with it.”

Garrett leans over towards Basso as he beckons him. “I dunno why you hang around with Corvo. Always told you he was a funny one.”

Garrett feels this way inclined to agree, and the tavern gets hot around him very quickly as Pendleton turns to Basso, already very tipsy, and looks him up and down, mouth curled into a sour frown, “And who are you? I didn’t think we’d be getting so… _well acquainted_ with the local folk here.”

Basso shoots Garrett an exasperated look and rolls his eyes, opting not to say anything. This is an art of Basso’s that Garrett can’t quite seem to get the hang of - Garrett always has some sarcastic remark to shoot back when someone says something questionable, but Basso’s silence is the most cutting of all. His cursing is generally reserved for only the worst of slights, the most ruinous of insults. Instead, he sits there, jaw clenched, ignoring Pendleton’s questions, shuffling through the cards, cutting and riffling the deck once more.

“What are you playing?” Samuel asks from the end of the table, interrupting Pendleton as he looks like he’s about to say something very offensive, and Basso finally looks up.

“Kings. _You’re_ not invited. Doubt you’d be able to handle it, anyway. Taffer.”

Samuel just smiles. “Spent half my life drinking on a boat. I can handle it just as well as any other man. Piero’s the one you gotta look out for.”

The bookish man with the spectacles looks up suddenly, having been staring down at his knees for the past few minutes. “I’m not a drinker. I’m a natural philosopher.”

“You missed an opportunity for a good rhyme there, Piero,” Havelock says, swirling his whiskey in the glass and ignoring the fact that Daud’s already downed his entire pint and is lighting up his fourth cigarette, “I see you all the time with the bottle of port you have in that workshop. Surprised coming from a man who’s supposed to be quicker than Sokolov himself.”

Piero goes beetroot red and stammers. “I’ll have you know--”

“If I let you join in, will you stop whining?” Basso interjects, picking up one of the empty glasses and settling it in the middle of the table, evenly spreading the cards around it in a neat circle. The conversations that have been going on around the table slowly die down as Basso clears his throat, having resigned himself to the fact that, yes, these other people _are_ going to join in, and there’s nothing he can do about it, aside from stand up and walk away. He’s too tipsy to care at this point. Garrett raises an eyebrow but decides to ride it out, to take his opportunity when it comes and make a run for it.

“I don’t have the patience for explaining rules so I’m assuming y’all know how to play already,” Basso says, toying with one of the cards in the circle, straightening it out, “But we can go clockwise, starting with you,” he points at Havelock, who crosses his arms and frowns.

“Fine.”

“Go. Now.”

Havelock shoots Basso a shitty look, picks up the first card and flips it over, showing the rest of the table. Seven of hearts. Martin’s hand is the first to shoot up, followed quickly by Pendleton, and then everyone else except Garrett and Piero. Garrett hasn’t played this game before, hasn’t played _any_ drinking game before, but he’s quick enough to catch on. He puts his hand up too, knowing that otherwise he’ll be hassled until he does drink, that it’s easier just to win this game and then go. Piero isn’t so fast.

“Drink,” Martin says, pushing Piero’s full glass towards him, with a wiggle of his eyebrows, “Best be faster next time.”

Piero sits back and crosses his arms, scowling. “I thought the Overseers weren’t supposed to drink to excess, Martin. How do _you_ know the rules of this game?”

Martin scoffs. “Some of us are more devout than others. And some of us know how to cover our backsides properly. Drink.”

“I really don’t--”

Daud leans forward in his chair and mouths something inaudible at the inventor which, judging by his subsequent expression, is a very credible threat. Not hard to back down when being threatened by Daud, it seems. Piero goes white and nods quickly, pulls from his tweed pocket a tattered sheet of paper scattered with spidery equations, and boxes off the bottom left-hand corner, jots down a note, headed by the number seven.

“How much do I drink?”

“Until I say so,” Martin says, amused by Piero’s apparent discomfort.

Garrett watches from the corner of his eyes as Piero studies and then slowly, clumsily tips the glass back and downs a sizeable portion of it before Martin finally gives him the signal to stop. Basso doesn’t appear to enjoy the intrusion, but Piero’s apparent cluelessness does bring a weak smile to his face and a glint to his eyes.

“Garrett, you might want to be making notes too,” Basso says, tapping Garrett on the arm from across the table as the thief recoils, “You’re not going to be able to remember ‘em.”

Garrett narrows his eyes in annoyance, “I can remember the rules fine. I wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t _roped_ me into Sevens.”

Basso shrugs and looks back at Piero, who by some coincidence, is also sitting to the left of Havelock, making him the next person to draw a card by virtue of the rotation. Piero splutters as he realises that everyone’s looking at him again and reluctantly draws a card, his hand shaking in something like anticipation. He flips it over, and then shoots his hand up before anyone else has chance. Clearly, Piero is a quick learner. He places it down on the table, revealing a face of seven void-black diamonds.

This time, it’s Corvo who’s the slowest to get his hand up, although Garrett’s not sure how, considering they’ve just done the very same thing. He scoffs and side-eyes Corvo as the latter laughs and finishes off what’s left of his drink, unperturbed by the loss. He studies the inside of the glass after he’s finished and puts it back down, disappointed. “Does anyone want to come and get another round?”

There’s a murmur of approval around the table and a sudden shifting around Garrett. His drink’s still untouched, full of piss-yellow beer, so he stays in his seat with Piero as the others leave to get more climbing over themselves to get themselves out of the booth and to the bar. They both watch the others at the bar intently, Garrett considering whether he should get up and run off now while he has the chance, before Piero cuts him off by engaging him in conversation.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m not particularly enjoying… this,” says Piero, studying his fingernails, “I have better things to do. Inventing things, filing patents. If only I could invent a device to stop all the others making stupid decisions like playing ridiculous games.”

Garrett doesn’t respond, not particularly interested in Piero’s inventions. He watches the group of people at the bar, chatting among themselves, Corvo smiling and conversing with Samuel like an old friend, Martin and Daud buried deep in what looks like heated conversation, Pendleton swaying where he stands, alone with a cigar in one hand. Basso leads the group back to the bar just as Garrett decides to leave, and Martin catches him square in the chest with a smirk on his lips and an open palm as Garrett makes to squirm out from between the table and bench.

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

Garrett looks up into his eyes and scowls. Martin simply dismissively sweeps him back along the bench so he’s sat in the same place as he was, before he tried getting away, the seat still warm, frustrated and humiliated. His cheeks burn.

“Where were we?” Havelock says, swirling his glass of whiskey absentmindedly. Garrett doesn’t know much (see: anything) about the people around his table, but Havelock seems aloof, military, if anything. He wonders how Corvo ever came to know men like these.

Samuel half-lifts his hand, dipping his head, and when he’s sure that everyone is watching, he lifts another card carefully, shielding it both from the rest of the table and himself before flipping it over, and the glossy face of the card shines in the dim light of the Siren’s Rest.

Ten of hearts. 

“Categories,” Basso says, in a very matter-of-fact way. “Pick a category, Samuel, and the rest of us have to think of - and say - something that fits that category.”

Samuel’s lips immediately curl into an amused smile, “Boats.”

“Boats? Really?” Martin says incredulously, slapping at Daud’s hand until he puts his drink down, reminding him only to drink when he loses a minigame. Daud scoffs, rolls his eyes and lowers the glass back to the table where he looks at it longingly.

Samuel nods proudly, and looks to Martin expectantly, “Go on.”

Martin rolls his eyes but relents anyway. “Battleship.”

“Frigate,” says Daud.

“Raft,” says Corvo, side-eyeing Daud.

“Rowing boat,” Garrett says, thinking back on his row with Basso to Moira Asylum. He hates boats.

“A tug.”

“Barge.”

“Trawler.”

In all fairness, Samuel’s suggestion was excellent. They nearly get to two whole rotations before Piero, of all people, slips up again, stutters before giving a nonsensical answer - must have been the alcohol - and the others, barring Garrett, cheer. Martin, once again, pushes the glass across the table towards Piero, and loosened by the previous events, he obliges him, finishing off what’s left of his drink. He looks noticeably dishevelled by now.

Samuel, still smiling, asks Piero if he’s alright, observing the sway of his upper body in his seat. It is abundantly clear to Garrett that Piero was never particularly interested in this game, like himself, but he’s not quick enough to win, _un_ like himself.

“I’m fine,” Piero says in response, gripping the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, cheeks flushed red, “Just keep playing. I’ll manage.” The lie is transparent.

Piero will be out long before the rest of them finish playing. There’s no question about that. He’s too small, not practised like Daud, Samuel and Pendleton are, not physically big like Havelock, slips up easily. If he were sober, he’d be the quickest of the lot of them, but now the alcohol’s nothing but slowed him to a crawl. His face is mottled, ruddy, red, his glasses steamed up. He pulls them off and his hand slips as he begins to clean them, dropping them down into his lap. Havelock bursts into laughter, finds this hilarious, and Piero glares at him from across the table as he picks them back up and finishes cleaning them.

Martin looks like he’s enjoying himself the most out of everyone present. He reaches out to the circle of cards around the glass in the centre of the table and pulls it out, turns it over in front of him, and grins. “King of spades, I get to make a rule up.” He stops for a minute before he announces the rule, and pours some of whatever drink he’s got in front of him into the glass in the centre of the table. It looks, to Garrett, like some kind of strong whiskey. It’s not a lot, but it would be enough to obliterate Piero. 

Piero looks at it in apprehension. Chews on the inside of his cheek.

Martin continues, after sitting back down at his seat. “You, what’s your name?” he says, cutting through the chatter around the table, pointing at Garrett.

Garrett doesn’t want to tell Martin his name but Corvo cuts in, placing an arm around his shoulder and leaning heavily on it, already tipsy, much to Garrett’s disgust. “He’s called Garrett. And don’t you forget it.”

“New rule,” Martin says, “Every time Garrett here side-eyes someone, everyone drinks.”

“What?” Garrett says incredulously. Corvo seems to find this funny. _Really_ funny. Garrett turns to him and stares the larger man down until he drops his gaze and hangs his head.

“And you have to play it until we draw another king,” Martin continues triumphantly, smiling at Garrett, who glares daggers in response, “So watch what you’re doing.”

That sounds like a threat, but what can Garrett do about it right now? He’s sandwiched between Corvo and the window, surrounded by people he barely knows. He’s just going to have to try and comply. He sits there, his face dark and drawn as Martin chats with Samuel and Pendleton for a moment. He doesn’t like this.

Daud, wordless and without announcement, picks up the next card, and then flips it over without ceremony, downing what’s left in his glass. Six of diamonds.

“Daud, you know it’s not a drinking game if you just keep knocking it back regardless of what card turns up, right?” Martin says, ribbing him gently. Daud shrugs, lighting up another cigar. Garrett suspects he doesn’t care. He’s just here for the beer.

He keeps his eyes carefully trained on Daud while he chats with Martin for a moment, not trusting him in the slightest. He’s big, too big to fight off, looks mean, walks as if he’s spent his entire life killing and he’s become used to the _respect_. Garrett can see Basso out of the corner of his eye watching Daud intently, and then his eyes meet with Garrett’s. He knows that Basso feels the same way. He wonders if Basso doesn’t feel regret now at not doing more to get Corvo’s acquaintances out of the pub.

Basso gently reminds everyone at the table that six means that all the men have to drink, so by extension that means everyone currently sat around the table. Garrett’s heart skips a beat - that means him too. 

Everyone else drinks while Garrett watches. Piero is quite clearly on his way out now; in five minutes or ten he’ll be on the floor, and the quesiton is not _if_ but _when_. He wonders who’s going to be the one to carry him to a bed. Daud eyes Garrett from across the table and points at him. “You. Drink.”

Garrett doesn’t want to, but Daud looks like he could kill a man with his bare hands, and there’s no way he’d be able to defend himself if anything were to go seriously wrong. Corvo is almost as tall as this veritable mountain of a man, but he’s also relatively slim, and Garrett’s not sure how he fights. So he glares back and slowly lifts the glass to his lips, trying not to taste the vile drink as it trickles into his mouth. He’s _used_ alcohol as a tool before, of course, but always in a controlled environment, always from sealed bottles, and always _just_ the right amount. It’s always been like playing with chemicals: if he knows exactly what he was doing then he can make useful things: fire arrows, gas arrows, health elixirs, the lot. But when the environment is uncontrolled, when he’s unsure of the concentrations of the chemicals, it can (and invariably will) blow up in his face. It’s happened before and it will inevitably happen again.

He looks out of the corner of his eye and finds Daud still staring at him so he keeps going, keeps going, the burning on his cheeks and in his stomach almost unbearable. Nausea roils in his stomach as the foul taste hits it and he has to stop for a second to dry-heave. It _burns_ as it goes down, and he’s not sure why anyone would ever do this just for fun.

Corvo rounds on Daud, blocking Garrett from his line of vision. “Leave him alone. He doesn’t need your bad influence.”

Corvo isn’t perfect, but Garrett appreciates that one sentence. He wills himself not to vomit on the table, and side-eyes Basso from across the table.

“Ah, may I just point out,” Pendleton begins, and Garrett sighs internally, knowing exactly what’s coming, “That our friend Garrett here broke our King’s rule, as per Martin.”

Martin nods, and Garrett feels what little of his will to live that remains slip away. He shoots Basso an exasperated expression but by now Basso’s cheeks are flushed red too, his head bobbing this way and that, and Garrett is sure he hasn’t actually picked up on what Garrett is trying to tell him. 

“That includes you too, Cityzen,” Martin says, pouring himself another glass of whiskey, the bottle of which he’s had the foresight to buy earlier, “Down it.”

Garrett knows that Daud is still looking at him so he just does as he’s told. As long as Corvo is somewhere between Garrett and that huge, scar-gnarled man, he feels slightly more comfortable. He has been trying to drink as little as possible, but now the entire glass is gone, already.

“See, I told you you’d eventually have it,” Corvo says, nudging him gently in the ribs, “Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Garrett feels peculiar, like the world is both rotating and not rotating at the same time, although it might just be the heat of the tavern. He looks up at Corvo and shrugs, his tongue already loosened significantly by the past fifteen minutes. “If I’d had a choice in the matter, I wouldn’t have been involved in any of this.”

“And I’ll drink to that,” Havelock says from the other end of the table, raising his drink and downing what’s left in his glass, before helping himself to more of Martin’s whiskey. “When do any of us have a choice in anything in this… shit world?”

“You are significantly drunk,” Martin says, slurring, grabbing his bottle back off Havelock, pulling it protectively to his chest, “I really did expect more of you, Farley. I’m disappointed.”

“Not as drunk as Piero though.” Havelock corrects him, gesturing to Piero who is swaying like he’s on a ship. Nobody bothers to stop him as he falls, as if in slow-motion, off his chair and onto the floor, where he stays limp, face-down. Garrett screams internally. _How does he find himself in these situations?_

Havelock shimmies his way out from the booth, picks up Piero bodily and bundles him back into the seat where Havelock has been sitting and then wedges himself in after, before Piero can fall back onto the floor. Pendleton takes the time to look up, his mouth contorted in disgust, but then goes back to drooping over his arms, almost as smashed as Piero is. They slump against each other, barely intelligible as they mutter to each other, and Basso leans away from Pendleton slightly. Treavor has very clearly been drinking for much longer than anyone else here. He has turned up stinking of spirits and the four extra glasses of whiskey he’s put down since then haven’t helped. Corvo has told Garrett that Pendleton has always been very fond of his drink, but Garrett kind of expected more. In all fairness, thinks Garrett, he is very small.

Samuel and Daud are arguably the two people least affected by this particular round of Kings. Samuel still looks very well put-together, smiling and chatting, and Daud just stares ahead, still smoking. Martin looks like he’s having the time of his life; sanguine, laughing, bubbly, can barely keep his hands off Daud. So unlike the reserved, conservative Martin Corvo talks of on occasion, if Garrett can pry it out of him. Daud doesn’t really seem all that receptive to Martin, and just puts up with it, starting on his sixth pint. Garrett’s not really sure how the man keeps going. There is, somewhere deep in his brain, some kind of respect for how much alcohol Daud’s knocking back without giving _any_ sort of indication that he is _actually_ drinking.

Maybe he’s one of those guys who goes all at once?

Garrett doubts it. The man probably spends half his life with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other. Very clearly a man of fine tastes. He looks over at Corvo, definitely beginning to feel something as the room spins. He _loves_ him, but he wonders what it would be like to have a partner who doesn’t literally eat fruit he finds on the ground in the dark recesses of backstreet alleyways and huge tins of that disgusting pickled fish, the smell of which follows him around for days. The two men seem so alike, yet so different at the same time.

Martin reaches around past Daud’s chest and insistently taps Corvo on the shoulder. “Your turn, your turn.”

Corvo nods and swiftly picks up his own card, turning it over and putting it back down on the table, face up, with a bit too much force. It’s a three of hearts. Corvo sighs. He drinks. And drinks and drinks and drinks. His hair is frizzy, his shirt unbuttoned at the top and dishevelled. He’s bright red, but laughing. Garrett is glad, at least, that he’s having a good time.

Garrett supposes that it’s his turn to draw now, but he waits for a few seconds, hoping that nobody notices, that everyone else is too pissed to keep track of this sort of thing. He pauses, a ball of apprehension growing slowly in his stomach while Piero and Pendleton sway and hit each other again, Martin bursts out laughing at something that Daud says, to which Daud responds with a quizzical expression, and Corvo plays with his hands while attempting to talk to Samuel. Basso is sat back in his chair, simply staring off into space, absentmindedly playing with Robin as she hops to and fro over his fingers and cheeps for the little mealworms he pulls out of a velvet pouch in his breast pocket and feeds her. Garrett thinks she’s a delight; an unexpected deviation from Basso’s preferred magpies and rooks, but a welcome one. She’s sassy and cute, and wags her tail when Basso even looks like he’s reaching for his pocket. She has him trained perfectly, and he’s only had her for a few months. But who would be able to say no to a face like that? 

Unexpectedly, it’s Corvo who turns around and asks Garrett if he’s still playing. Loosened by the alcohol, he considers for a moment, and then obliges. Dare he even think it at this point, he might actually be feeling a bit less paranoid than usual. He might be _enjoying himself_. He reaches out to the circle in the middle of the table, the small level of whiskey looking sad in the bottom of the pint glass, and flips a card. It’s a jack of spades.

Martin’s eyes widen. “That’s an interesting one.”

Corvo and Basso nod simultaneously. Samuel tilts his head.

“What?”

Pendleton cants forward over the lip of the table and speaks to Garrett in a comically exaggerated whisper. “It means you have to put four fingers up, and people say things to each other until you have them all down again.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Pendleton rolls his eyes and sits back, “You start. Tell us something you’ve never done and if one of us around this table _has_ we put one finger down. Got it?”

Garrett doesn’t really _get it_ but he decides to humour Pendleton anyway. Havelock is staring at him from the other side of the table but Garrett doesn’t believe for one moment that he’s actually lucid. He hasn’t been saying much this evening at all, and he has Garrett wondering if that’s because he’s that kind of man, or if he just has nothing to say. Or if he’s just too drunk to say anything of value.

“So…” Piero finally looks up at Garrett, his hair plastered to his forehead, “What _have_ you never done? Tell us about yourself.” It almost sounds like more of a command than a question.

Garrett shrugs and thinks. He’s done a lot in his life, but there’s one thing he can think of on the spot. “I have... never used a sword.”

“That was low,” Corvo says, putting down one of the four fingers he holds up, “I can’t believe you’ve done this.”

Daud doesn’t say anything, but puts one of his fingers down too, as do Havelock and Martin. Garrett doesn’t think he’s surprised. What _does_ surprise him is that Basso puts down one of his fingers too. Garrett does a double take and leans across the table at him.

“What? I didn’t know you’d fought anyone.”

Basso shrugs and Robin flies to his shoulder, hopping here and there before settling on top of his hat and sitting down. “I had a run-in, a long time before I ever met you. Closest thing available, it was me or him. Don’t want to repeat the experience.”

Garrett understands. He knows how Basso feels, so he backs off. He’s had his own share of very unpleasant situations involving the Watch himself, and he knows hell will freeze over before he allows himself to think anything more of them. 

Basso goes next. Garrett watches him shift uncomfortably in his seat as he thinks of something to say. Martin tells him to hurry up, impatient. He glares across the table and then finally speaks, slowly and deliberately, knowing full well what he’s doing. “I have never left my home city.”

There is a collective groan around the table. Pendleton leans over and stares at Basso, his hand quivering. “You did that deliberately. That’s no fun.”

“ _I_ didn’t want you joining in, this was _our_ game of sevens and you ruined it. If I’m going to make you pay for it, it’s now.” His mouth is set in a hard line. Pendleton cedes pretty easily, and sits back, staring dead ahead. He puts one of his fingers down, as do the rest of the table, excluding the two Cityzens. Garrett is thankful for Basso every day.

Pendleton goes next. Garrett can tell from his shifty eyes that he _wants_ to take a shot at Basso individually but he knows nothing about him, so his gaze eventually settles on Corvo. “I have never eaten a live animal.”

Corvo doesn’t move. Pendleton stares at him, glaring daggers. Out of the corner of his eye, Garrett sees Samuel put down one of his fingers, his jaw drops, and judging by the reaction from the rest of the table, everyone else is just as surprised as he is; Samuel is so unassuming, so innocent.

“I ate a live fish once,” Samuel says in a very matter-of-fact way, “It was a bet.”

Piero manages to pull himself off the table long enough to give Samuel what Garrett assumes would be a confused expression, “And… how did it taste?”

“Fishy.” Samuel nods, and draws circles on the table with his index finger, “I’d recommend cookin’ your fish before you eat it, though.”

Garrett tries to dispel the mental image of Samuel stood on the roof of a tiny fishing boat in the middle of the ocean, shirt off, scarf tied around his head and flapping wildly in the wind, surrounded by other sailors, biting off the head off some poor, innocent salmon. It’s not what he expects from Samuel at all, the man seems so gentle and _normal_. Much more normal than anyone else at the table.

There is a moment of silence while the Loyalists look at each other and then back to Samuel, and Garrett exchanges telling glances with Basso.

Pendleton hasn’t forgotten what he’s come here for. He turns and glares at Corvo from across the table and pouts. “And what are you, you disgusting gremlin? Don’t think for a _second_ I haven’t seen you sat on the roof of the Hound Pits, eating live rats.”

“That was actually a private moment, but I’ll let it slide,” Corvo says in response, helping himself to some more of Martin’s whiskey and knocking it back, forgetting that he’s only supposed to put one more finger down, “I don’t know if you remember, but you and Havelock and Martin never actually _gave_ me any food. I had to scavenge it off the floors.”

Corvo has three fingers down at this point, more than anyone else around the table. All eyes are on him. Piero doesn’t seem to notice this, his head’s back on the table and his tongue’s poking out from between his teeth, almost making contact with the greasy table. Havelock nudges him in the ribs, an exasperated expression on his face, and Piero bolts upright suddenly, his eyes wide. He seems to have sobered up _just_ enough to not fall over again.

“I have never betrayed my fellow Loyalists and used the Empress to seize power.”

Corvo crows in delight and hides his laughter behind one hand. Justice.

Havelock narrows his eyes but doesn’t drink, “That was oddly specific.”

“Bite me,” Piero says, his head back down on the table, “It’s within the rules. You’ve done that, and I haven’t.”

Havelock looks at Pendleton and Martin, who don’t say anything. Then, all staring at Piero, who is oblivious to what’s going on around him, they put their fingers down. Martin’s alcohol tolerance is by far the lowest of the three men, and it’s showing. He’s easily had the least to drink out of them, even though it still isn’t an insignificant amount, but he’s swaying almost as much as Piero is. Even Havelock himself is showing his cracks. So when one of them finally does drink, it’ll nearly be over.

They won’t be here much longer.

Garrett seems to have made it through so far relatively unscathed, and he’s the only person with all four fingers still up. Nobody seems to have noticed. He melts into the shadows here, like he does everywhere else.

Havelock shrugs, seemingly tired of this, “I have never dyed my hair.”

Ah. There it is.

Corvo looks over at Garrett. It’s enough for the rest of the table to latch onto. He puts one finger down. Best not to attract attention, and Corvo, Havelock and Martin all have two more fingers down than he does. But then Pendleton puts his foot in it, again.

“Garrett side-eyed Corvo again.”

There he is with that fucking King’s rule again. Garrett glares at Pendleton. The world is still spinning slightly from what he has already had to drink, and even a little bit more will make it so much worse. He shakes his head, declining to drink more, and then he sees Daud appearing out of the corner of his eye. Martin pours him a fresh glass of whiskey and slides it across the table at him.

Daud looks at him more intensely and shakes his head slowly. Garrett can feel his gaze burning into the side of his head before Corvo intercepts yet again, bodily shifting in between Daud and Garrett. Piero had already downed his glass, but it’s too much for him. There is a minute while Garrett watches him get paler, before he bails and scrambles for the door, throwing it open and leaving the rest of them with a draft and the sounds of vomiting floating in from the outside. 

Samuel stands up, dusting himself off. “Someone needs to take Piero home and I think it should be me. I’m goin’ to bid you all a goodnight now. I hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.” He nods, shuffles out from his chair at the end of the table, and leaves, shutting the door to the Siren’s Rest behind him. 

That leaves only seven of them, and the others are still watching Garrett intently. He wants to get out, to leave with Samuel, but eventually the rooms gets too hot and the table too silent so he just downs it to avoid more confrontation. Pendleton cheers, but Corvo looks like he wants to punch him in the face. His eyes burn across the table at Pendleton, along with Garrett, but the man doesn’t notice. He’s too absorbed in himself.

Martin looks thoroughly tired by now. He takes a glance around the table and takes stock of who’s the closest to losing. Corvo and Havelock. Basso is the only person with all four of his fingers still raised.

“Sorry Corvo,” he says, “I have never been accused of being a heretic.”

“But you are a heretic,” Corvo says in response, looking thoroughly downtrodden, circling the rim of his glass with his finger, looking into it. He puts his last finger, followed by his whole hand hand down, defeated by the minigame, and drinks what remains of the last beer. He slumps back in his chair while Martin looks offended, and sighs. “I can name at least four of the strictures that you’ve broken off the bat, you’re not pious, and you don’t even try to hide it. Please don’t tell me nobody has _ever_ called you a heretic before, _ever_ , because that’s a lie. And I’m not even going to go into what you do in your spare time, behind closed doors.”

Martin’s eyes widen at the blatant challenge. “I said I’ve never been _accused_ of heresy. I’m not a heretic, but more importantly I haven’t been accused of it--”

He doesn’t have time to get anything else out before Corvo turns to Basso and appeals, even though he’s already had his beer. “Basso, this is bullshit. Is there a penalty for liars?”

Basso blows air through his lips and shrugs as Robin hops back onto the top of his hand. “I don’t know. Drink?”

Corvo turns back to Martin and stares him down, resting on his elbows on the table, “You heard him.”

“I don’t even care any more,” Martin says in response, slurring heavily, stumbling over his words, and then just finishes off what’s in front of him. “I’m going outside to get some fresh air.”

Daud nods, still showing no sign he’s been drinking at all. No sign except the fifteen pint glasses sat on the table in front of his spot on the bench, some of which have been used more than once. The grizzled man shuffles his way out of the booth with Martin and they both make for the door, Martin leaning heavily on Daud. Looking over at the bar tender, Garrett sees him sat down on a stool with his hand resting on his palm, looking thoroughly hopeless.

That leaves only a few now: Pendleton who’s way too out of it to pick himself back up off the table, Basso, Garrett and Corvo. The table is a complete mess now, but not as much of a mess as Garrett is. The world’s spinning around him, he’s staring off into space, brain _utterly warped_ by the past few hours. He’s not sure that he’d make it to the door without Corvo’s help, but thankfully he’s not as gone as Pendleton is. 

Basso tells the other two that he’s taking a bed at the Rest tonight, and Robin cheeps happily from his shoulder as he attempts to pet her and then misses with his gloved hand. “Stay out of trouble,” he says to Garrett, shuffling out past Pendleton and up the stairs. Corvo and Garrett nod simultaneously and, weaving this way and that, leave the tavern.

Pendleton is left by himself, slumped over the table, his hair a complete mess and his clothes dishevelled. Garrett’s not sure if anyone cares enough to drag him home. 

They leave the Siren’s Rest to the sound of a _splash_ , lots of confused yelling and shouts of laughter. Looking up, Garrett finds that Piero has, for whatever reason, ended up in the water, and now Samuel’s attempting to scoop him out. Martin watches from the sidelines, hanging onto Daud’s arm, crying in laughter, almost on his knees. Corvo leaves Garrett by the wall of the Siren’t Rest and helps Samuel fish Piero out of the water, who looks like a drowned rat, spluttering and coughing, eyes wide, nostrils flared. The pair pull Piero over the edge of the docks and Samuel takes his coat off and wraps it around him, changing his mind about hauling Piero to their designated inn.

“I’m just goin’ ta get him a bed here,” Samuel says, rolling his eyes in annoyance, “It’ll be so much easier.”

Corvo nods in understanding and helps Samuel pull Piero off the ground again, his breath coming out in little puffs of white, shivering violently, stiff as a board. Daud has still not bothered to be any help, but has walked off, leaving Martin standing by himself in the middle of the docks.

Martin glances around while the others sort Piero out, searching for Daud, and then seeing his retreating back runs to catch up with him, hooking himself onto the larger man’s arm and walking with him off into the night, a trail of smoke following Daud. Where they’re going, Garrett’s not quite sure. The world is still spinning around him and he stumbles, taking one frantic step and then another to regain what’s left of his balance before he hops back into place and turns to face Corvo, wibbling on the spot, smiling. Grinning his little head off.

Corvo has always said he likes it when Garrett smiles. Garrett wonders if it’s anything like how it feels like when Corvo looks at him with that _look_ in his eyes like he’s found something rare and precious. He stops and feels something warm bubbling just above his stomach. Whether that’s love, or vomit, he just can’t tell. Maybe a bit of both. After all, aren’t they the same thing?

Noticing Garrett, Corvo gives him a funny look and then, making sure Samuel has managed to get Piero back into the warmth of the Siren’s Rest, goes to join him, linking arms with him and half-walking, half-dragging him back to the clocktower. Garrett stumbles over a rock and Corvo scoops him up into his arms until he can carry the thief no longer. They stick to the shadows to avoid the wandering Watchmen, stifling giggles and hush words, and when they get back, they fall into each other’s arms on the scratchy bed that Corvo hates so much.

Corvo looks over at Garrett with _that look_ in his eyes. Desire? Passion? Gods forbid - love? The look that Corvo Attano _always_ gives him when he wants to fuck, and the same expression that he always does after the fact too. Soft, dark curls contrast nicely with his perfect fucking long lashes and he reaches over to Garrett, pulls him in, pulls him on top of him where Garrett lies, bathing in the warmth of his body and the goosebumps that spring up on his skin under both the worn leathers and his touch. Corvo cranes back and slides his hands down Garrett’s back and onto his ass, palming it with a low groan in the back of his throat. Garrett feels the lump growing somewhere below his thighs, beneath Corvo’s coat. He wants him.

Garrett wants him too. He’s quivering - waiting in anticipation for what Corvo’s going to do next. Ready to respond to whatever he does with him in equal and opposite measure. Corvo abruptly falls still, his hands still cupping his backside, and there’s a moment of stillness, of silence, the perfect tease. Electricity crackles up Garrett’s back.

There’s another groan, but it’s different. Less controlled. It turns into a snore. And then another.

Garrett shuffles himself backwards and observes Corvo laid out in front of him, his hair all over the fucking place, mouth slightly open, snoring away. Sound asleep. His clothes, as beautiful as they are, are ruffled and messy, the attempt at taking them off made all too clear by the fly that is half unzipped, one boot lying on its side on the other side of the clocktower, and the other still on his foot. 

Garrett just looks at him, slightly annoyed at being viciously blue-balled by his _own partner_ , but instead shrugs, puts his head down on Corvo’s chest, and settles in, curling around his lover, breathing falling into synch with the man beneath him. Still unconscious, Corvo picks up his arms with some difficulty and pulls Garrett in close.

From the still-spinning room, Garrett can tell going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow. 

They fall asleep together to the thunking of the clock above them.


End file.
